The Lady Comes Home
by Ladyhawke 620
Summary: With Hawke injured, and Roper out of the game, who will save Airwolf when an attempt is made to steal her? Story takes place ten years after Blackjack events and is the fourth in a series after Progeny.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - Original Airwolf characters are owned by Donald Belasarius and Universal and they retain all rights. I make no profit from them or this story, I just like to visit their world occassionally.

* * *

Stealthy footsteps echoed softly down the tiled hallway, keeping to the shadows. The dim glow of the exit sign giving only the barest illumination. Clasping the handle slowly, firmly a gloved hand pushed the office door inward. Silently, it opened brushing the carpet as it did so.

Sure steps padded around the cherry wood desk, pausing on the far side. The metallic scritch of lock pick in lock rasped as the drawer was forced open with a wrench.

Freezing at the noise, the gloved hands paused, waiting. Silence. No one had noticed.

Opening the drawer fully, black leather pawed through the myriad of ball point pens and post it notes, sliding to the back of the drawer. The reach was sure and certain, assured of what it'd find.

A thin card slid out, balanced in an open palm, and encoded with committee level clearance. Blue eyes gleamed in the darkness, fingers closing around the card. The game was on.

* * *

Saint John Hawke stood in Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III's office and glowered. "What do you mean you're missing a security card?" he yelled. "You people are supposed to be in the business of keeping secrets. Seems to me you're doing a blasted poor job of it, Michael!" He threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

Leaning back in his chair, Archangel smoothed his mustache and waited. The icy blue intensity of the single-eyed stare the only sign of his own ire. The other man wheeled on his heel. His restless energy a sign of the storm that raged within.

"Finished?" Michael asked dryly.

Saint John froze, leveling the other with a grey-eyed glare. "Yeah," he bit out at last, looking none to happy. "I am."

"Good," the spy rejoined. "Then we can get down to business." He turned to the woman who stood beside him. "Marella…"

The café au lait skinned woman crooked an eyebrow at him, the glance cool, assured. Reaching down to the desk, she handed the elder Hawke brother a file."

"What's this?" the rangy blonde demanded, taking it with a scowl.

"I'd suggest you read it," the woman tossed back pertly. "The key that was stolen last night was Michael's."

Hazel eyes flew to her face questioning.

Rising restlessly, Archangel reached for his cane, pacing around the perimeter of his desk. "The thing is," he mused, "its theft was almost missed."

Saint John's startled gaze flew to the white-clad spy in turn. "Perhaps you'd better explain," he said leaning against the chair arm.

Limping unevenly across the carpet, Michael scowled. "I was supposed to be on a flight to Langley this morning for senate subcommittee meetings. The plan had been that I'd be gone the rest of the week."

"And?" Saint John asked with a shrug. "You're obviously here."

The spy sighed, irritated. "I forgot a file, Marella came in to get it for me and noticed the drawer."

The blonde pilot raised an eyebrow. "So the assumption is, somebody figured it'd be a week before anybody noticed it was gone."

The spy nodded grimly.

"Well, at least you got an early notice, change the code, no harm done."

"Wish I could," Archangel replied icily. "The only problem with your plan is we don't know who took the key and so we don't know who the mole in the network is.

Realization set in, blanching the pilot's face. "You've got another mole?" he whispered, stunned as he thought about the recent events that had gotten his brother Seb arrested for treason and nearly gotten his friend Mike rivers killed, not to mention almost destroying String's family. Even Marella and Michael had had a close call there.

The change in attitude was immediate. "What do you need me to do, Michael?" he asked, instantaneously throwing in his chips. He might have tried to leave this world of espionage and spy games once, but there'd be no backing down where it concerned his family.

Michael gave a worn grin. He and the elder Hawke had never gotten along, heck he thought, he wasn't even sure he and Stringfellow got along and they were friends, but there was no denying his loyalty.

"Nothing," he said quietly.

Saint John made to protest.

"Well, at least for now," the spy amended. "Roper and Rivers will continue to work on the project in your brother's absence, he said referring to the enforced vacation Hawke was enduring at his cabin after a near fatal car accident. "You keep an eye on Santini Air, and your brother Stringfellow. We're not so sure whoever it is won't try something there."

"And Seb?" Saint John asked, trying to figure where his younger bother fit into everything.

"He'll be safe enough," Marella assured him.

Saint John turned to Michael frowning.

"Really, he will," he reassured. "I'm just not at liberty to discuss it at this time."

Crossing his arms, the older Hawke scowled. "He'd better be," the pilot stated, not looking very mollified. "Or missing security cards will be the least of your problems."

* * *

Looking out at the smooth waters of the lake, Stringfellow Hawke paused, watching an eagle dive, pinioning a trout in her talons. The cello reclined against his leg, a bow in his right hand. Silently, he envied her her freedom. There'd be no flying for him for a while, at least not on the upper wind currents.

He frowned, restless. He knew he shouldn't complain, in all fairness he was more than lucky to still be around. It just seemed like getting over it was taking forever this time.

There was no skirting around it though. While the bruises were fading, and his leg was healing the memories of the accident were still fresh in his mind. Recovering from a partially collapsed lung, even he admitted he had no business flying Airwolf. Flirting with her pressurized systems was a disaster in the making and he had no desire to go there.

Besides he thought ruefully, he hadn't even been cleared for regular flying by the doctors yet, today being the first day in weeks he'd been headache free from the concussion - and Caitlin was keeping close tabs on that one. Not that he was sure he wanted to push it, he thought , shoving himself off the log cello in hand. Walking down to the dock winded him these days, and his pretty wife hovering like she expected him to keel over was killing his ego. He knew it looked bad when he ended upstanding there bent over gasping for air like a dying fish, he just could've done without the reminder.

What he needed, he thought humorlessly was a flight in the Lady to clear his head, too bad it might kill him.

* * *

Roper crawled under the instrument panel of Airwolf and grunted. "Hey Mike," the dark-haired pilot called, "hand me those wire clippers will ya? The wiring under here looks like spaghetti after that last firefight."

Air force Major Mike Rivers sighed. "You know Roper, you're turning into as much of a slave driver as your old man. How 'bout we drop this for a while and go get a bite to eat?"

Pushing out from beneath the instruments, the twenty-something pilot peered at him with sharp blue eyes. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact Sarah and Chris get back into town tonight, would it?" He paused reaching for the needle-nose pliers. "Besides Mike, you know that "old man" of mine is only three days older than you, so you might want to watch that. You're dating yourself old sod."

Rivers aimed for a look of innocence at the mention of Hawke's sister. "Oh really?" he asked. "I'd completely forgotten that she and Chris got back tonight."

"Righ-t," the younger man drawled, his blue eyes sparkling. "That's also why you keep checking your watch I suppose."

Mike looked abashed - for about three seconds. "Nope," he retorted. "Just hungry. Come on, let's go eat."

Crawling back up under the instruments like a contortionist, Roper sighed. "Gotta get this done, and String's not here to help. How 'bout you go grab us a couple sandwiches from the cafeteria."

Good-natured, blonde-haired Mike sighed. "Alright man," he said. "Just don't blame me when you turn into a crusty old curmudgeon like Hawke."

Roper ducked his head out from underneath chuckling. "Hey, watch it Rivers," he retorted, throwing a grease rag at him. "That's my old man you're talking about."

Laughing Rivers ducked, heading for the elevator. "Roast beef?" he called.

"Yeah, sure," the other replied, crawling back under. He worked in silence a few minutes before he heard the elevator ding.

Shoving out from beneath, he raised his toffee-colored head to taunt, "What'd you do old man… forget your wallet?"

There was no answer.

Surprised at the lack of a rejoinder, Roper stuck his head out of the helicopter. "Hey Mike?" he called.

A sound like an angry wasp zipped by him, twanging into Airwolf's shiny, armor-plated hide. "What the…" he began, even as the next bullet slammed into his shoulder, knocking him across the pilot's seat and into the hanger floor.

Sucking in a nauseous breath, he grabbed for the door. At least inside, he'd be safe from whoever was using him for target practice, he thought.

The door wrenched from his hands, a booted foot slammed into his chest and back again. Groaning he landed in the floor for a second time.

The elevator dinged again. "Hey Roper!" a voice called. "They were outta roast beef. You can have turkey or turkey. What'll it be?"

The overall clad man spun, taking aim as he did so at Mike.

"Hey, who are you?" Mike demanded, spotting him for the first time and not recognizing him.

The man pulled the trigger even whilst Mike was realizing he had a gun in his hand.

Rivers dove for the stack of parts in crates to his left. Experience had him reaching for his gun, even as his assailant fired the next round.

Struggling to feel his fingers, Roper fought to gain his feet and disentangle himself from the loose wiring. His hand fell under the pilot's seat hitting something cold and hard, and instantly he knew it was Hawke's Walther PPK that he'd set out of the way earlier when he'd been working on the instruments.

Sticky fingers closing on the butt, he grabbed it, levering it into a two-handed grip slick with blood. Pulling back on the trigger he fired, the first shot going wide, the second easily finding its mark.

The man stumbled for a moment as he ran, giving Roper time to get to a better position. Turning and running the overall clad man headed for the stairs, firing a volley of shots in River's direction.

Ducking, Mike returned the gun fire from behind cover. What the heck had happened? he wondered. He'd only been gone five minutes, okay, maybe ten tops.

Torn, Mike eyed the figure disappearing up the stairs and the helicopter. "Roper!" he yelled, "you okay?"

No answer.

"Roper!" he tried again. This time there was a muffled response.

"Blast!" he cursed, running for the helicopter. No matter how badly he wanted to go after the unknown man, he couldn't leave Roper.

Covering the ground quickly, he yelled out. "It's me, Roper! Don't shoot!" Warily, he ducked around the open cockpit door, praying it wouldn't be his last move.

Gun poised in a wavering grip, Toper faced him, blue eyes hazed with pain in a pale face. Blood stained the shoulder of his flight suit, dripping onto the concrete floor and smearing the cockpit door.

"Geesh," Rivers muttered, reaching for the gun.

"Is he gone?" Roper gasped.

"Yeah, he's history," the older pilot assured. "How 'bout you give me the gun before you accidentally shoot both of us?"

Dazed, the younger pilot handed blonde-haired Rivers the gun. Shoving it into his waistband, Mike punched up the communication board. "Archangel, Archangel do you copy?"

Almost instantly, Marella's voice cut across the line. "We're here Mike," she confirmed. "What's up?"

"You've got somebody loose in the building. They just tried to steal Airwolf."

Mike could hear Marella's indrawn gasp even as she called for security in the background.

"They're armed, Michael," Rivers warned, "and they mean business."

"Airwolf okay?" Michael asked, concern in his voice at his words.

"Yeah," Rivers replied shortly, looking at the other man seated weakly on the edge of the cockpit. "But Roper's not. You'd better send a medic."


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you mean someone tried to steal Airwolf?" Saint John thundered. "What kind of operation are you running anyway, Michael? First, missing security cards, then they're trying to steal your top secret project out from under your noses! Now you tell me on top of all that, Roper's been shot?"

Michael grimaced. Put like that it did sound pretty bad. Crap, he thought, it was pretty bad.

Saint John tamped down his rising ire with difficulty. "So where's he now?" he demanded, wondering how he was going to explain this to String.

"Medics were sent down and took him to the clinic. Rivers is with him now."

"Well, thank goodness for that," the blonde pilot snapped. "At least he's got a chance of surviving the day here if Rivers is there!" with that he strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Marella winced. "Should I call and let medical know he's coming?" she asked.

"No," Michael sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "They've dealt with Stringfellow before. Compared to him, Saint John is a piece of cake. Let them deal with it."

* * *

"Ow!" Roper yelped flinching.

The pretty Asian doctor frowned at him. "How am I supposed to fix your shoulder, if you won't be still?" she demanded.

"Well, if it didn't hurt when you do that, I guess I wouldn't move," he threw back petulantly, the blue eyes flashing.

"And if you'd taken the painkillers I prescribed for you, it wouldn't be a problem!" she retorted, dark eyes narrowing, as she tightened down on the bandage giving it an extra tug.

Leaning against the corner, Mike tried to smother a chuckle, shooting Roper a sympathetic look. "Doesn't look like your charms getting you very far this time," he teased merriment in his face.

"Stuff it," Roper snarled at his friend.

The look the doctor gave him wasn't much better.

He laughed.

A ruckus began in the hall outside. Roper shot a questioning look at Rivers who grabbed for his gun. "Expecting company?" he asked.

"No," Roper replied, shooting him an uneasy glance, his own face pale as he shoved the doctor behind him. Irritated, the petite beauty looked like she'd like to kill him herself.

"I can take care of myself!" she began hotly.

Roper threw her a look, strain clearly stamped on his face and then promptly ignored her. "My gun's still in the hanger," he whispered tensely to Rivers, realizing it'd been left in Airwolf when the medics had arrived.

"Sounds like Saint John," Rivers commented, sidling up to the door. "But he's not supposed to come by today is he?"

The dark-haired pilot shook his head. "Running Santini Air, so far as I know, what with String laid up."

Gun in hand, Mike waited. Impatient footsteps echoed down the hallway. The door swung open and Saint John found himself staring into the barrel of Mike's gun.

He raised startled blonde eyebrows at his friend. "Sorry I ticked you off, Rivers," he commented sardonically. "Next time I'll be sure and call."

Mike rolled his eyes, shoving the gun back out of sight under his jacket. "What brings you here?" he asked, clasping the other's hand and slapping him on the back. "Aside from the obvious, of course," he said shooting Roper a glance.

The younger man glared back.

"You okay kid?" Saint John asked, looking at his nephew.

The lean, young man nodded silently, the attitude belying the shadows in his face. Saint John narrowed his eyes momentarily at his appearance, but said nothing.

Disgusted, the petite dark-haired doctor shoved past Roper. "If that's all, gentlemen," she said sarcastically, disdain practically dripping off her words. Turning on her heel, she flounced out, long braid swishing behind her.

"Wow," Saint John whistled. "She was hot, in more ways than one."

"Quite a way with the ladies you've got," Rivers teased.

Flushing, Roper glanced away, a muscle working in his jaw. "Yeah, so it would appear."

Startled at the tone, Saint John shot him a curious glance, but nothing else was forthcoming. He looked at Rivers, who shrugged.

Giving up, he went back to the matter at hand. "Michael called me in," he said his tone dropping.

"Oh?" the shorter Rivers questioned. Saint John's involvement in FIRM business had largely ceased when he'd taken over Santini Air and he and Jo, Dominic's niece had married several years before. Though the marriage had not survived, he had not returned to being an operative. Now his involvement mostly consisted of the occasional pinch hit and bailing his brother String out of trouble when necessary.

"Red Star's got a security lapse," the rangy blonde whispered, his voice husky as the other two gathered closer. "Michael's passkey for the Airwolf files is missing and his office's been broken into."

"You think it's got something to do with what happened today in the hanger?" Rivers asked.

Saint John nodded grimly. "I'd bet my last dollar on it."

Rivers frowned. "Then I guess one of us needs to go keep the Lady company."

Saint John nodded. "My thoughts exactly."

Mike headed for the door. "See you later," he told Roper, slapping his good shoulder.

Hunching forward, the other man straightened abruptly as the blow rippled through his body jarring his injured shoulder.

"This evening?" Saint John asked, "Around 7 p.m.?"

"Make it 6 p.m. and you've got a deal," the incorrigible pilot tossed out. I've got a date."

"Alright, 6 p.m.," Saint John agreed, knowing Mike would be eager to head to the Hawke's sister's house after her long absence. "I better get a move on then. I've got a lot to get wrapped up at the hanger, and I've still got to go out to the cabin to see String."

Rivers nodded, striding quickly out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Saint John turned and leveled a steady gray glare at his nephew. "So, how bad kid?" he asked, nodding at Roper's wounded shoulder concern showing in his face.

"I've had worse," the younger man shrugged not meeting his eyes.

Knowing it'd been touch and go last time, Saint John didn't find that a lot of comfort. "So how long they keeping you?" he asked with a deep sigh.

"Couple days," Roper replied aiming for nonchalance. "They were worried about infection after the last go around."

Saint John nodded. Seemed a valid concern to him. The last time Roper had tangled with getting shot, he'd almost died. This was a little close on the heels of that for comfort.

"You think it's Freyja?" Roper asked voicing the concern they'd all been skirting around.

Saint John shifted his weight uneasily. "I hope not," he said. "But it could be. If it is, none of us are safe. That's why I've got to get out to the cabin and warn String and Cait."

Roper frowned, "No joke."

Saint John slid String's Walther out of his pocket. "I hear you dropped this earlier in all the excitement," he said handing the gun to him. "You might want to keep closer tabs on it, String'll be hot if you lose his gun collection."

Roper gave a wry grin. "You don't say," he murmured. "Thanks, man."

Rising, Saint John nodded, the hazel eyes wary. "Watch yourself, kid."

Sliding the gun under the blankets, Roper gingerly eased back to wait. He nodded.

* * *

"What do you mean Roper was shot?" Hawke demanded shoving himself up from the couch. He ignored the warning twinge in his side as he did so.

"Somebody broke in at Red Star," Saint John began patiently.

"Really?" Hawke asked sarcastically. "That still doesn't explain my son getting shot!"

"Wrong place, wrong time," Saint John said. "He'll be okay, String. They're just hanging on to him for observation."

"Humph," String growled. "Shouldn't have happened period. It wouldn't have, if I hadn't brought him onboard."

"Yeah, well you wouldn't have had much of a chance to get to know your son if you hadn't."

"Better that, than him end up dead," String flared back.

"Oh be logical, String," Saint John grumbled. "He's a grown man, he can make his own decisions."

"Not that grown," Hawke snarled, ignoring Saint John's comment. "You know it's Freyja, don't you? And now thanks to me, he's right in the middle of it."

"Maybe," his brother allowed. "Maybe not. There's a lot we don't know yet."

String paced the room impatiently. "Well, it's not like she's just going to show up on your doorstep to hand over the evidence. It's her," he avowed, like a bulldog with a bone he held on. "It's her and I should've killed her in the first go around and this wouldn't be an issue now."

"Good grief, String! Who died and made you king?" Saint John exclaimed throwing his hands into the air. "There was no way you could've known she'd be wearing a vest."

"Maybe not," Hawke snarled, "but I did a damn poor job keeping my family safe from her last time. Now she's back and I've put Roper squarely in the line of fire." Slamming his glass of whiskey to the table, he stormed out of the cabin slamming the door behind him.

"Mama mia," Saint John muttered using one of Dom's pet expressions. Like it wasn't enough of a mess without String going off half-cocked. He really hadn't looked too good there, he thougtht. Be just like him to leap before he looked.

Raising the glass, he started to take a final gulp. Halfway to his mouth he paused, his eyes narrowing. Surely Hawke wouldn't, he thought. Almost instantly he slammed his glass down. Of course he would, if he'd thought of it, no doubt Hawke had as well. The only question was could he beat his brother to the punch before he did something really stupid.

* * *

Stringfellow Hawke looked at the charts and laptop spread out in front of him and sighed. Even if he could get to Red Star, a problem now that Cait had been keeping an eye on him lately, and keeping him away from anything that remotely flew, he still had to get her out of sight. At mach 1 hiding the Lady was a piece of cake, she'd disappear off radar before they knew what hit them, at 300 knots it was a whole other story. Fast yes, but not faster than anything else the FIRM might throw at him if their prize toy were escaping.

Idly, he rubbed his chest. Could he push it just a bit, he wondered? The ribs were still bothering him, but that was just bruises. The real question was, would the lungs take it.

Gathering up the flight charts and maps, Hawke put them away conscious his all too astute wife would be home soon. No need brooking the storm if he didn't have to. Sliding the laptop back into place, he headed up the stairs to the loft.

Suddenly, he felt like a run around the lake, something he hadn't managed in weeks. It was time to see how close to healed he was. He only hoped it was close enough to visit a certain Lady.

* * *

Slipping silently down the hall of Red Star, Saint John kept to the shadows as he headed for the hanger area. No doubt Michael had stricter security protocols in place, but he sure couldn't see any evidence of them.

Booted feet made little sound as he walked down the carpeted main hallway, before sliding the keycard through the reader for the stairwell door. Slipping inside, he gently closed the door behind him, it barely registering a click as it locked back into place.

Halfway there he thought of Mike, whom he was supposed to replace earlier so far as keeping an eye on things. He'd called him earlier and made an excuse so far as not being able to make it for guard duty on the Lady tonight. He'd felt bad about Mike's date with Sarah, but there hadn't been much help for it. She of all people though would understand though.

At any rate, he thought dragging his thoughts back to the task at hand, he didn't want Archangel connecting him with this. The only problem was, he still hadn't really come up with a good plan so far as how he was going to steal Airwolf out from under Rivers' nose and not involve him.

Reaching the hanger, he was surprised to find it in near darkness, Mike nowhere in sight. Uneasily, he started to look around. It wasn't like Mike not to keep his post. He was as reliable as String on that one. Even as he contemplated that though, he heard the clink of stoneware around the corner where the coffee pot sat.

Heaving a sigh of relief, and certainly not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Saint John hurried over to the helicopter hoping to manage to get in before he was noticed. Opening the cockpit door with a whoosh, he slid inside powering up the engines as he did so.

Hurriedly, he rolled her forward onto the tarmac in the moonlight. Almost instantly, the sky lit up with lights powering on around him and guards hurrying out. Pulling back on the collective as quickly as he dared, Saint John shoved the throttle forward sending Airwolf howling into the night.

He'd just begun to relax, thinking he'd pulled it off when a sharp rap against the side of his helmet startled him. Snatching the stick left he veered, throwing Airwolf into a half-roll before he righted her. Glancing over his shoulder, he stared into Freyja's ice blue eyes and her gun barrel.

"So glad to finally meet you Mr. Hawke," she said with a nasty smile. "I've been waiting."

* * *

Running shoes laced up, String paced himself around the edge of the lake in the evening twilight, the trail as familiar as the lake itself. He couldn't count the number of times he'd run it over the years. This time was different though, the course proving far greater a challenge than it had since the early days when he'd come back from 'Nam and been so torn up the jar of every step had been an ordeal.

The difference was this time he was twenty one years older. Now simply breathing was an almost insurmountable challenge, as he managed to make it to the halfway point in the trail.

The air burned in his lungs, what little he managed to pull in. Chest heaving, he stumbled to a halt, hands on knees and struggled to breathe. Finally, giving up all semblance of pride he just dropped to the ground on hands and knees sucking in air and praying not to pass out, the cool, damp ground against his forehead. It seemed there'd be no pushing it this time, the Lady was on her own with Archangel. He only hoped Michael was up to the job.


	3. Chapter 3

Seated in the chair by the hearth, Hawke set aside his book. It didn't really matter anyway, he thought. He'd read the same page three times and he still didn't have any idea what it said.

Tilting his head, he listened, the sound of a helicopter tickling his ears. Coming fast, he thought. Rising, he walked out to the porch to wait.

A white Jet Ranger careened around the mountain. Flaring hard, it hovered over the dock settling as he watched. Archangel piled out, cane in hand as he strode up the path.

"Alright, Hawke," he demanded, "Where is it?"

"Where is what, Michael?" Hawke asked sardonically.

"Airwolf, dammit Hawke! Don't play games with me!"

Startled blue eyes slammed open in shock, before the mask of implacability slid down, Hawke exhaling a deep breath. "I don't have it Michael."

"What do you mean you don't have it?" Archangel demanded. "It was your security card that was used to get in. There's only a handful of people who can fly it, and two of them are in the FIRM's clinic."

"Two?" Hawke questioned, wondering what he'd missed.

"Roper and Rivers."

"Rivers?" Hawke parroted, feeling like he'd stepped into the twilight zone.

Archangel scowled. "Yes, Rivers."

A frown creased Hawke's forehead. "Is he okay?" he asked, shooting Marella a quick glance as she stood there.

She nodded, not speaking.

Archangel glared. "You're going to say, you really have no idea what I'm talking about?"

Hawke turned to face Michael. "That's exactly what I am going to say. I won't deny I thought about it," he said soberly, "but I can swear to you I had nothing to do with taking Airwolf if that's what you're implying. I wish I could say I had."

The spy's shoulders slumped. "Damn," he whispered. "I guess I knew," he said, his eyes silently apologizing. "But I hoped…"

Uncomfortable with the apology, String frowned. After all, the only reason he hadn't taken Airwolf was he couldn't, not yet anyway. Gesturing to the door he motioned them inside, saying, "Come on in, let's have a drink. I think I need you to bring me up to speed."

* * *

Freyja joined him in the cockpit, settling into the co-pilot's chair as if it were her right. Coldly calculating, she catalogued his every move, doling out co-ordinates only as necessary and at the last minute, keeping him off balance and unable to plan ahead. Saint John scowled in frustration, irritation eating at him. What he wouldn't give to dump the woman on her…ah, never mind. No chance of that, and her holding the gun, not at least if he wanted to live.

"1500 meters straight ahead," Freyja ordered as they flew over the thick San Bernardino National Forest. Angling in on her co-ordinates, he hovered over a small clearing.

"Land it," Freyja snapped impatiently as he hesitated.

Shoving down on the collective, he dropped her like a rock, Airwolf's weight slamming heavily down on her landing gear. Knowing he'd only get one chance, Saint John was ready as she hit, lunging for the gun.

Stunned by the jolt, he easily knocked the gun from her hand. Her recovery was swift though, and she spun free from his grip throwing her weight behind a vicious palm-heel strike to his chin. This was swiftly followed up by her grabbing his right shoulder and slamming her knee up into his stomach.

Doubled up and gasping for air, Saint John fought back, knocking her to the floor with a quick sweep, struggling in the tight confines of the helicopter to get any leverage.

She went down hard. Even as she hit though, her hand closed on the butt of the dropped gun. Bringing it swiftly up, she leveled it at his chest. "Want to try again, Mr. Hawke?" she queried her tone disdainful.

Knowing when he was beaten, Saint John raised his hands backing off.

Hustling him out of the cockpit, several camo-garbed gunmen joined them, rifles in hand outside Airwolf. Freyja giving him an abrupt shove as he climbed out, Saint John stumbled to his knees catching himself on the cockpit door.

Swiftly an assault rifle slammed into his ribs, prodding him to his feet. "Get moving," the man snarled, "or I'll give you something to worry about."

Jaw clenching in anger, hazel eyes narrowing, the pilot gained his feet.

A second man training his rifle on him put paid to any thought of escape for the time being. Hunching his shoulders in defeat, Saint John marched in the direction the other man pointed.

Pilot problem disposed of, Freyja motioned with her gun to the nearby woods. Several more figures stepped out, also brandishing rifles. "You there," she ordered inclining her head, "get the camouflage netting over her, and do it quick."

* * *

"So you're saying somebody broke into Red Star with my keycard," Hawke commented. "I don't see how. I haven't been anywhere in weeks, Michael."

"It was your card, Hawke - or at least your code."

"That cards been on my dresser, since before the accident. I didn't have a lot of need for it at a fancy wedding reception and I sure haven't had a lot of need for it since," String commented.

The spy frowned, leaning forward earnestly. "Look Hawke, if you took her I'd certainly understand…"

"The point is, Michael," Hawke retorted, the blue eyes flaring angrily, "I didn't. I think I've already told you that.

I couldn't even if I wanted to. Cait's made darn sure not to leave me the Jet Ranger the past week or so, and even if I could get out to red Star, physically I can't pull the g's."

Shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Archangel acknowledged the truth in the statement. While Hawke certainly was capable of taking Airwolf under the right circumstances, this certainly didn't ring of them. Not to mention, he thought, toying with his silver can handle, he couldn't deny the frustrated ring of truth in Hawke's statement about being physically fit enough.

"Okay, I believe you," he commented, knowing he'd overstepped. "So any idea on how somebody got a hold of your key code?"

Hawke shook his head. "No, like I said I've been here. Roper has it, Rivers has it." The blue gaze narrowed assessing, "You say they roughed him up when the Lady was taken, any chance they…"

"No," Michael shook his head. He was unconscious when we found him and they ran a full tox screen on him. He came back clean, and he swears he didn't say anything."

Hawke sighed in relief. "Then I don't know," he commented. "Like I said, I've been here with the occasional trip to Santini Air and the doctor. The only person who's…" he trailed off uncertainly.

Michael seized at the thought. "The only person who what Hawke?"

String raised uncertain eyes to his face. "Saint John was here. Saint John can fly her Michael…"

"Yeah, but does he have the key code?" he asked.

Hawke scowled, unease flickering through him. With that he hurried up the stairs two at a time to the loft. He was panting by the time he got there.

A long pause followed. Impatiently, Archangel paced the length of the room waiting. Finally, checking his watch, his patience frayed. "Hawke?" he yelled.

There was no answer. Grabbing the railing, Michael made his way up the stairs as well. Uneasily, he looked in each of the bedrooms.

He found Hawke laying in the floor on his stomach beside the bed in the last one. "Hawke?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

Pushing up on muscular forearms, the younger man contemplated him worriedly. "It's not here, Michael. I've looked everywhere."

"Well," the spy sighed. "I guess that answers our question.

* * *

"You sure you're okay?" Michael asked Hawke yet again, not entirely comfortable with the grayish pallor of his skin.

"I said, I'm okay," the pilot snapped as he pushed forward on the cyclic, maneuvering around the mountain as he skimmed towards Red Star.

"I heard you," Michael retorted. "I'm just not sure I believe you. Lauren could've flown," he said indicating the young woman who now sat in the back.

Scowling, Hawke rolled the helicopter hard left before pulling back on the collective, forcing the helicopter into a climb so steep it threatened to stall. Abruptly, the aircraft leveled out, only to roll right and drop precipitously down in a hammerhead stall.

Grimacing, Archangel grasped the seat, the woman behind him gasping in terror. "Alright Hawke, alright. You've made your point."

"Glad to hear it," Hawke rejoined. "I was beginning to wonder."

Casting him a deadly look, Archangel flipped the radio switch. "Angel One requesting clearance to Red Star. Repeat, Angel One requesting landing clearance."

"Clearance granted, Angel One. Red Star over."

Hawke raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar voice. "Training new recruits, Michael?"

He didn't look amused. "Nope, too busy hunting for billion dollar aircraft."

"Well, so long as you find it," Hawke quipped, looking amused at Archangel's annoyance. Flaring, he set the helicopter lightly down on the tarmac. The rotors were still lazily loping when the two men stepped out of the 'copter.

In almost the same instant, Marella and Caitlin stepped forward out of the hanger. Archangel chuckled at the look on Hawke's face. "Guess you're not expecting the welcoming party to be too welcoming, huh?" he taunted dryly as the women approached. Hawke narrowed his eyes at him, but kept walking.

Reaching them, Marella gave Hawke a warm hug before she turned to Michael. "It's good to have you back, Hawke," she said sincerely.

"Thanks," he said gruffly, his eyes meeting hers. A thousand words passed between them unspoken as she held his hand.

Releasing String's hand Marella smiled softly, and then placed a welcoming kiss on Michael's lips. "Missed you," she commented.

"It's good to be back," he answered, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they walked, leaving String and Caitlin alone.

Caitlin faced Hawke, looking less than pleased. "I thought you were staying home to rest," she said, a small frown furrowing her brow.

"Yeah, so did I," he responded. "Things changed."

"I see," Caitlin sighed looking back to the white Jet Ranger he'd just climbed out of. She had no doubt as to who'd been flying. Worry colored her blue-green eyes. "You think that's wise?"

Pulling his wife in, String placed a kiss on the top of her head as he held her close. "Doesn't matter Cait," he said. "It's got to be done."

Releasing her, he headed after Michael and Marella.

"Does too matter," she whispered mutinously, rubbing suddenly cold arms. "It matters to me."


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay. So here's what we know," Marella commented. "Someone tried to steal Airwolf the night Roper was shot. We think the shooter was a man…"

"We know the shooter was a man," Roper stated emphatically. "No way that boot that slammed into my chest was a woman's."

Mike Rivers looking rakish with the bandage still around his head, nodded in agreement. "It was a man, Marella."

"Fine," she returned with asperity. "The shooter was a man."

"Saint John came back the following night and took her. It seems a safe enough bet that he wasn't Roper's or Mike's assailant, so who does that leave?"

"They'd still have to have security clearance to get in," Cait said. "Anyone you can think of Michael?"

Templing his fingers in front of him, he shook his head. "No, no one. The codes were changed after the debacle with Freyja. My card and Hawke's card are the only ones missing, and while mine might gain access to files, it won't open any doors."

"But Hawke's wasn't used to gain access to any outside entrances," Marella pointed out. "Just inside doors."

"What if they didn't use the door?" Hawke asked quietly.

All eyes turned towards him, before Michael dismissed the comment offhandedly. "No other way in," he remarked.

"Actually, there is," Hawke responded, with an uncomfortable shrug, and then proceeded to explain how he'd done it.

* * *

Wrists shackled to the bed, Saint John snatched at this chains in frustration. Not that he was getting out that way, he thought, only achieving the cuffs cutting further into his already bruised and battered wrists. It was like a sore tooth though, he couldn't leave it alone.

The worst part wasn't the getting caught, he mused wryly. It was the fact in trying to save Airwolf and his family, he'd played straight into Freyja's hands and endangered them all by giving it over to her. And she'd be more than happy to use it to bring down every last one of them. From personal experience he was already finding she was not a woman who easily forgave.

She'd already exacted revenge for his failed attempt to escape. Leaning against the iron bed frame, he could feel her ire with every breath he took, his bruised ribs aching. Good thing he hadn't really ticked her off. Unfortunately, that honor was String's - and from the sounds of things and knowing him, he'd be heading into the lion's den as soon as he realized his brother and Airwolf were missing.

* * *

"Okay, so we know how she got in," Mike said. "The real question is , how do we find her? You know she's going to sell Airwolf off to the highest bidder, bolt by bolt."

"Then we just have to make sure that we're the highest bidder," Marella avowed. "Michael?"

Leaning back in his chair, he nodded grimly. "Whatever it takes."

"She's going to have to know it's a trap," Caitlin warned, fear in her eyes.

"Quite frankly," Michael commented. "I don't care whether we get her, so long as we get Airwolf out of her hands. That thing can reek more wholesale destruction than we can even dream of."

Mike nodded grimly, having seen the effects of the Lady on a rampage under String's tutelage. "But we get Saint John out to," he emphasized."

"Definitely," Archangel vowed.

"So what about her having to know we'll come after her?" Cait queried worriedly.

"Doesn't matter, Cait," String replied, shrugging. "We've got to stop her, one way or the other, and it may be our only chance of getting Saint John back."

"Even if you're walking into a trap? Surely, there's got to be some better way," she said, a frown marring her delicate features.

"Even if."

"You've got to know she's liable to decide she wants the money and the helicopter," she argued, not caring the others were hearing this argument between her and Hawke.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "I'm betting on it. No love lost on either side."

"She won't forget you tried to kill her."

"That's okay," String answered. "I won't forget I failed the first time, and I sure won't forget she has my brother." A muscle ticked in his lean jaw as he said the words, his eyes hard.

"Okay, so how do we find her?" Mike asked, feeling he better head off this conversation from the direction it was rapidly heading. "We haven't exactly had stunning success in the search so far."

Marella pulled up the computer models and began typing in information. "Well, she said, "I've run several scenarios and I've come across a few possibilities."

Having been on the receiving end of her "few possibilities" before, String raised an eyebrow. "And?" he prompted.

"Given Airwolf's fuel range, the terrain, the local populace, likely hiding places and Freyja's need to make a speedy exit…"

Mike cleared his throat noisily.

"That and the fact we got a hit on one of the credit card aliases she uses."

Abruptly, Michael leaned forward. "Where?" he demanded.

"San Bernardino County, near the town of Forest Falls."

"Bingo!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"There's who knows how many acres of forest land out there they could hide her in and nobody ever know she's there," Rivers said.

"Nobody, but us," Hawke replied, his jaw hard.

* * *

"So tell me how you figure into this, Mr. Hawke? The tall, Nordic blonde demanded archly, pacing the room. "So far as I can tell, you don't work for the FIRM, and never have. That's strictly your brother's forte, well, him and your nephew anyway."

"Just luck I guess," Saint John tossed back glibly, wondering how she'd found out about Roper so fast.

The ice blue eyes narrowed imperceptively. "I'm not amused." She raked a long blood red fingernail across his cheek in a grotesque pantomime of a caress. "So, where's Stringfellow Hawke and why are you flying Airwolf?"

"No idea, and 'cause I can," Saint John retorted.

Spinning, she caught him full across the jaw with an open-handed slap. The blow reverberated across his senses even as she drew back for another. "Don't test my patience, Mr. Hawke," she spat. "You won't find it a pleasant experience."

Anger glittered in his stormy gray eyes. "I'm already finding it an unpleasant experience, so what's your point?"

She turned on him, a knife blade gleaming dully in her hand. Scraping it along his jaw bone, he fought the flinch as she drew blood and he felt the tip press against his carotid artery. "There are many ways to die Mr. Hawke, some more unpleasant than others. You might want to keep that in mind." She flicked the knife tip out, catching him across the collar bone and dragging down and across his chest.

Struggling Saint John fought with his bonds, trying to avoid the blade, biting back the yell that fought its way out of the back of his throat. The Viet Cong had nothing on this woman, he thought.

Making her point, she stepped away coolly wiping the knife blade on his shirt. "Think about what I've said Hawke," she said with a cruel smile. "I have limited use for you." Pocketing the knife in the folds of her skirt, she sauntered away.

Saint John ducked his head in pain and fury as he felt the blood drip down his chest and neck, sticking to his shirt as he fought the chains again.

* * *

The phone rang. Blonde-haired, athletic Mike Rivers lunged for it, the waiting wearing at his thin patience. "Santini Air," he snapped.

"Do a lot of business that way?" Archangel's sardonic voice taunted across the lines.

"Get to the point, Michael," Rivers growled.

"You know, I think you're spending entirely too much time with Hawke," Archangel replied. "You're beginning to pick up his sunny disposition."

"Michael…" he intoned warningly.

"Alright, alright," the spy conceded. "Lauren was contacted this morning. It seems there's rumors in the intelligence community of there being a new player on the block. One who packs a substantial amount of hardware."

"Freyja?" Rivers demanded.

"Could be," Michael replied. "At any rate, there seem to be feelers out in the mercenary community concerning possible buyers for this very expensive hardware."

"Really," Rivers commented, his interest piqued.

"Yeah. A demonstration is being set for two days from now. Co-ordinates are to follow. I've arranged for someone to be there to represent the FIRM's interests."

"I'll go," Rivers volunteered.

"No," Hawke responded, striding into the office. "Freyja knows you. We can't take the chance."

"Well, we can't just sit back!" Rivers fumed in exasperation.

The dark-haired pilot leaned across the desk. "I'm not suggesting we do so," he said, his voice dangerous. "Just let Michael do his part and we'll do ours."

Turning away from Rivers, he faced the speakerphone. "When's the meet, Michael?" he questioned.

"2200 hours. I'm sending the co-ordinates now."

"We'll be ready," Hawke replied. He hit the speaker button with a calloused finger. "Boot that computer up, Rivers. We've got a lot to do before Friday."

* * *

Staring at the flight map, Stringfellow Hawke frowned, rubbing his forehead wearily. He'd been at it for hours now trying to come up with a plan of attack. No matter how he looked at it though, they had a problem.

The valley Freyja had picked was isolated and anything flying in would be easily spotted - especially with Airwolf's systems. Any chance of taking her at the demonstration was fraught with problems. It was obvious Freyja wouldn't give her up without a fight and she had all the gunpower. If she was in the Lady, prying her out would be almost impossible. Rubbing at a splitting headache, Hawke scowled.

Soft steps padded into the room. Looking at her husband hunched over the charts, Caitlin sighed. "Come to bed, String," she murmured.

"Can't Cait," he muttered, not looking up. "I still haven't found us a way in."

Sidling up behind him, she placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. The fingers of her right hand threaded through his baby-fine toffee colored hair. "It'll wait, String."

He shrugged. "Just a little longer, Cait. I promise."

She shook her head, leaning over to place a kiss on his rough cheek. "Tomorrow, Hawke." She pulled on his arm, dragging him to his feet. "Come on to bed."

Rising he held her in his arms, even as he looked back at the charts uncertainly. "But I…"

She shook her head, placing a hand on his cheek as she pulled his gaze back to hers. Blue-green eyes implored sapphire blue. "Tomorrow, String," she whispered.

He started to say something and paused. Sighing, he let it go, dark eyelashes fluttering down as his lips met hers. "Tomorrow," he murmured roughly, pulling her to him.

Her arm wrapped around his lean waist, she led him up the stairs to the loft, turning the light off as she went.

* * *

Toffee-colored hair now blond streaked, Roper expertly checked the clip in the Beretta.

"I still think this is a bad idea," String muttered.

"Point duly noted," the younger pilot tossed back, his blue eyes sparkling. "Anything else?"

Hawke scowled at his oldest son. "It's not a game, Roper." He rubbed at his chest uneasily.

Sapphire blue eyes sobered. "I'm aware it's not a game, String. But there's nobody else to do the job, and we all agree she's a lot less likely to recognize me than Caitlin." He shifted his weight, sliding the gun into his belt. "I'm going," he stated defiantly, "and that's the end of it."

Knowing he had no choice, Hawke subsided. Bad as he felt the plan was, it was the only one they had. Once again, Roper was stepping into the fray and he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

Watching him climb into the cockpit of the Hughes 500, Hawke slid his thumbs into his front pockets. Squinting into the afternoon sun, he watched him go, concern evident on his face.

Silently, Cait slipped up behind him, her hand on his shoulder. "He'll be okay," she whispered.

"Yeah," Hawke muttered, he just wasn't sure whether he was trying to convince her or himself of that.

Turning, he picked up his own gun, a .45 and slid it into his belt watching Cait do the same with hers. Basically there just to keep watch, they should be well out of harms way. Trouble had a way of finding them though, he'd long ago realized and he'd take whatever help he could get.

Climbing into the helicopter, the radio crackled to life. "Angelwolf, Angelwolf, this is wolf cub do you read?"

"We're here," Hawke returned tersely.

Roper's voice came over the radio. "Destination in sight, looks like four other interested parties, the package is nowhere in sight."

"Copy," Hawke answered. "Over."

Caitlin turned concerned eyes to him. "You think she'll show?" she asked worriedly.

"She'll show," he bit out, his voice hard. "Airwolf could easily be anywhere within a hundred miles of the test range and still make it there in time."

"Just wish we knew what was going on," Cait muttered.

"Me too," String whispered. "But now we wait."

* * *

Hustled out of his bonds and into a waiting helicopter Saint John waited. Idly he rubbed his wrists where the shackles had bruised and cut them. He wasn't naïve enough to think things were taking an upturn, the only question in his mind now, was what was Freyja up to now?

In front, a dark-haired man took the controls easing the Jet-Ranger into the air. Competently he pointed the helicopter in the direction they'd come towards the Mojave Preserve. Silently watchful, Saint John watched the landscape sweep by, and the instruments mark direction.

The pilot flew maybe 100 feet off the deck, close enough to make it more difficult to identify them, far enough to avoid disaster.

"So where're we headed?" Saint John asked, deciding to take a chance on small talk. Perhaps he'd get lucky, he thought.

The pilot turned and looked at him, the mirrored glasses impossible to read. "You'll know, soon enough," he said snidely.

Saint John scowled, leaning back into his seat to wait.

* * *

"Angelwolf to Santini One, do you read?"

"Santini One here," Mike's voice came back clear and calm.

"Wolf cub up and running."

"Got him. He should be back with the pack shortly, transmitting loud and clear. Santini out."

"Well, we're on our way," Cait said eyeing Hawke with some trepidation as he eased their Jet Ranger into the air. The rest is up to Roper."

* * *

Settling the Hughes to earth at the pre-arranged meeting place, Stringfellow Roper drug off his dark aviator shades for a minute accessing the other players. Four additional choppers flanked an expensive SUV in the desolate desert. Airwolf was no where in sight.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved the shades back on. So far as disguises went, it wasn't much of one, but he'd take what he could get. The blonde-streaked locks had startled him more than once in the mirror today, wondering who this stranger was, hopefully with any luck they'd do the same to Freyja.

Stepping out of the helicopter, Roper subjected himself to the pat down, glad he'd left the Beretta in the cockpit. Schooling his features into cool indifference, he prayed the bodyguard didn't find the transmitter. In a moment it was over and he felt himself being waved over towards where the others stood.

Even as he joined the group, an ear-splitting howl creased the air. As a group, the others swung to face the noise in surprise and Roper tried to do the same. Murmurs of surprise and anticipation lit the air as the sleek, black death machine hovered above.

A tall, white-blonde woman stepped out of the SUV. Pacing the car one hand on the hood, she faced the men. "Welcome gentlemen," she intoned. "I'm so glad you've come to see my little demonstration."

She picked up the radio. "If you would, Mr. Hawke."

Gun to his side from the co-pilot's chair, Saint John realized he had little option in the matter. Nosing the helicopter forward, he swung her on her own axis back the way she'd come. He throttled up, running a strafing double line of canon fire across the canyon floor, making another pass he fired a maverick near enough the meeting several potential buyers found themselves involuntarily ducking.

"Enough, Hawke," Freyja bit out, her eyes icy. "Stick to the script."

A few more demonstrations later, Airwolf settled heavily to earth. Two armed men closed in on her, aiming at the pilot's door. A moment later, a tall blonde man stepped out to the click of rifles, another armed man behind him.

His face a mask of impassitivity, Roper eyed the other man from behind his shades.

Freyja brushed past him, gesturing at the helicopter. "Now you've seen the product, gentlemen. Take any last minute looks you might want before we get started, and we'll begin the bidding." she stated coolly, moving away from the aircraft.

Joining the entourage, Roper wandered over to the helicopter and surreptitiously slid the homing beacon Archangel had given under the pilot's chair.

Finally, Freyja clapped, attracting their attention. "Shall we begin the bidding?" she asked, gesturing towards the chairs that'd been set up in their absence. Turning, the men headed for the chairs as a group.

"Except you, Mr. Roper," her voice rang out clear and concise. "I have a chair of honor here for you."

Turning, Roper looked at her. Coldly beautiful, she had an automatic leveled at his chest. Reaching up, he pulled off the dark shades, blue eyes narrowing as he looked at her.

She motioned him over to a chair next to where Saint John sat. One man had a gun trained on him, the other on Roper. Freyja just crooked an eyebrow and smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

"You still getting a clear signal?" Hawke asked Caitlin over the headset.

Absorbed in the laptop in front of her, Caitlin nodded, giving a muttered, "Yeah." She punched a couple more keys. "Due east," she directed.

Nudging the stick, Hawke corrected course. Night was falling quickly even as they narrowed the gap, a mixed blessing to be sure. Grudgingly, Hawke had to admit how much he missed the Starlight Amplification System in Airwolf.

"They've stopped," Caitlin announced. "Think they've landed?"

"Maybe," Hawke replied. "Keep an eye on them and make sure we don't cross paths inadvertently."

"Will do," Caitlin agreed, punching in some more figures. "Target still not moving, 1500 yards out."

"What kind of place we got where we can set down - about 1000 yards out or so?" he asked.

"Small clearing 1000 yards out. Got a rocky formation just due north of it and plenty of surrounding underbrush."

"Sounds like the perfect hiding place," Hawke commented.

"Works for me," Cait said. Not waiting to be asked, she rattled off the location co-ordinates.

Following them, Hawke proceeded to set the Jet Ranger down. "How 'bout the Hughes?" he asked, referring to the helicopter Roper had borrowed.

Clicking on a few keys, Caitlin pulled up the signal of the beacon she'd hidden in the Hughes that morning, unbeknownst to Roper. "Heading away," she commented. "About five miles out. Got outbid?" she asked.

"Outbid or outmaneuvered," String said with concern. "Neither's good."

Slipping out of the helicopter, he joined Caitlin on the far side of the chopper. "We'll go in along here," he said, pointing out a cleft in the hillside. "I'll go first, you cover me."

Solemnly, Cait met his eyes nodding. "You got it."

"And Cait?" String asked.

"Yeah?"

"If something happens, if I go down, you know what I mean," here the intense blue eyes pinned her. "Run like hell. I mean it. Do whatever it takes to get away. Do not come after me, you hear?"

Blue-green eyes narrowed in her fair, freckled face. "Like hell I will, Stringfellow Hawke!" she spat.

"Grief, Cait," String ground out in exasperation. "Promise me. Somebody has to survive all this and raise Nicky and Amelia, and quite frankly the odds aren't in my favor here!"

"What do you mean the odds…"

"Forget it," Hawke rasped, realizing he'd already said too much. "Just promise me, if something bad happens you'll get out for Nicky and Amelia."

"What do you mean…" she started to ask again, not distracted.

"Promise me," Hawke demanded, his fingers clamping down on her arm. The bite of his fervor was painful.

"Fine," Cait tossed back, crossing her fingers superstitiously as she did so. She met his eyes again and nodded.

Satisfied, Hawke let her go and drug her close. He kissed her hard, his lips settling over hers as if he feared it might be the last time, his hand splayed across her back. "You know I love you, don't you?"

"Yeah," she said with a grin, wondering where this demonstrative man had come from and what he'd done with her taciturn husband. "I know."

Loosening his embrace, String let her go with a kiss to the forehead. "Be careful," he murmured.

"You too," she whispered, her voice low.

"You know me," he tossed back.

"Yeah, I sure do. That's why I told you to be careful." she retorted.

His eyes crinkled in amusement for a moment, before he turned and carefully began the trek up the canyon. Silently, she fell into step behind him, trying not to stumble in the growing darkness.

In grim silence, they traversed the narrow canyon, the only sound an occasional wolf howl, a loose rock and their breathing. A dim light shone up ahead and Hawke held up his hand signaling her to wait. Quietly, he pulled out his gun and crept forward, keeping to the shadows.

A dingy khaki-colored tent came into view, a fire just outside the doorway. Two men hunched around its warmth talking, a lantern off to their sides. A jeep parked behind them, as did Airwolf, her white shark-like underbelly gleaming dully in the moonlight.

"Hey there, baby," he whispered, relieved at least she was found. Now where Saint John? he wondered. Perhaps, in the tent, he mused as he screwed the silencer onto his gun.

Hawke stepped out, not exactly into the open, but away from the cover of scrub canyon brush. Then something slammed into his right shoulder and arm from behind. It shoved him to the ground like a linebacker nailing a quarterback. But this wasn't football, and he knew what getting shot felt like.

This was it.

Hidden in the shadows, Caitlin watched in horror as Hawke went down, the words of the promise he'd forced from her still ringing in her ears. Biting back a cry, she watched hoping for some movement on his part, willing him to get up, to make it to cover, but there was none. "Like hell I will," she muttered.

Tightening her grip on the gun she held, she waited, knowing they'd be coming for him out of the darkness. Cautiously, the first man stepped into the moonlight, his handgun aimed at Hawke's prone form. The second man stealthily followed.

Taking a level aim, she fired. Once, twice. The first man went down, the second dodged for Airwolf and cover with a yell of pain. Hawke rolled, bringing his gun up and firing. The shot hit the fleeing man squarely, taking him down.

Running, Cait hit the dirt beside Hawke, intent on hauling him to his feet. Biting back a moan of pain, he staggered up with her help.

"Just couldn't listen, could you?" he ground out.

"Nope," she replied, slinging his good arm over her shoulder. Stumbling, she herded him towards Airwolf.

"You know, you could've been killed," he grated, his breath coming in gasps as they staggered for the helicopter.

"I'm aware of that," she retorted.

Clammy sweat was starting to break out on his forehead now. He bit his lip so hard it bled, as he struggled to remain upright. "You promised," he said, the tone accusatory.

"You told me," Caitlin retorted, blue-green eyes flashing. "It's not the same."

"Fat lot of good it did me," String muttered, reaching for the cockpit door. It opened with a whoosh.

Cait reached in for the first aid kit. Snatching a wad of gauze out, she pressed it over the wound in Hawke's arm after peering at it in the dim light. "Went clear through, though I'll never know how," she said wrapping tape around the still bleeding wound.

"Saint John's not here." Hawke muttered in frustration as she wrapped.

"You're sure?" Caitlin queried. "What about the tent?"

"Nah," Hawke sighed tiredly, looking every one of his years. "He's not here, and neither is Roper."

"The Hughes?" Caitlin asked, her thoughts racing.

"That'd be my guess," he replied, flexing his fingers. The pain clawed and ebbed at his arm and shoulder, but it seemed to work alright. Reaching, he rifled through the first aid kit with his good arm, snatching out a bottle of painkillers. He downed two straight out of the bottle, before tossing it back in.

"You want me to fly?" Cait asked, watching him with concern.

He raised startled blue eyes to hers. "Nah," he muttered. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?" she asked, having been on the receiving end of that line before.

"Yeah," Hawke drawled. "Dandy." Stiffly, he reached for the collective and looked at her. "Let's go," he rasped, his voice a mixture of pain and adrenaline.

Frowning, Caitlin climbed in.

* * *

Trussed to a chair for the second time in two days, Saint John fought the ropes. There had to be a better way of doing this, he thought as he struggled to work them loose. His ears straining, he listened for sounds of how Roper was doing in the other room.

None filtered back and he chaffed with impatience, feeling one rope slip just the slightest. Abruptly, the door opened and rough hands flung Roper bound onto a nearby cot. The door slammed shut again.

"Roper?" Saint John called carefully.

The younger man stirred slightly.

"Roper?" Saint John tried again.

This time he got a muffled groan as his nephew stirred, and struggled to sit up, blonde-streaked hair flopping into his face. His cheekbone was bruised and bloody, and the rest of him didn't look much better. Drawing a tentative breath, he exhaled against sore ribs. "Saint John?" he murmured , across the room. "That you?"

Saint John frowned, concern marring his face. "Yeah, it's me kid." The cot wasn't that far across the room, and though the light was lousy, surely the kid could see him. "You okay?"

A muffled groan answered him. "Wish I knew," he muttered. "Between Freyja slamming my head into the helicopter instruments, and that shot of whatever they gave me, I couldn't tell you which ways up or down. Everything's one massive blur." Roper finally shoved himself upright, breathing hard.

"Hang in there, kid," Saint John, cajoled fighting the ropes all the harder. It was untelling what they'd given Roper and String was flying straight into a trap. Somehow he had to find a way out of this for all of them before it was too late.

* * *

"Run scans, Caitlin," Hawke ordered as they neared the signal sent out by the Hughes' homing beacon.

"Running," she answered, hitting the buttons for infrared and radar. "We're in the clear," she informed. "Nothing else airborne around. Hughes helicopter dead ahead. What's the plan?"

"Can you get a read on the building?" Hawke asked.

"Eight life forms. Scattered throughout, no way of telling who's who.

"Great," he sighed. "Then I guess we go in on foot. Nothing else?"

"Nope, that's all I got," the redhead replied succinctly.

"Well, let's land this baby and see what we can do. Get Mike on the radio and give him the co-ordinates just incase and tell him to send some back up."

Tripping lightly over the keyboard, Caitlin's fingers sent the message.

Dropping lightly out of the cockpit, Hawke and Caitlin slipped through the shadows. Gun in hand, Hawke tried the door, twisting the knob. It turned in his hand opening up to a large storage area.

Signaling Cait, he motioned her to flank him as he slipped inside. They'd barely made it five feet in when the gunfire erupted. Diving to the floor, Caitlin made for cover, every fiber of he body screaming at her to get out.

Hawke rolled, coming up firing. He kicked the door open, flattening himself against the wall. Shots peppered the area around him.

Caitlin fired back, providing him cover.

He swung the .45 M1911A around slamming off a shot in her direction. Instinctively, Caitlin flinched, her next shot going wide. Behind her, a gun clattered to the concrete floor.

She spun back to Hawke. In the split second, he'd disappeared into the other room. Cursing she ran across the room in a ducking crouch. Gunfire ripped into the concrete around her, and she flung her hands up even as she dove for the doorway.

Rolling to her feet inside the door, Caitlin stealthily crept into the room, hearing the sound of voices. Muttered imprecations from Saint John, softer comments from Hawke and the occasional word from Roper.

And then across it all cut another voice, this one female, cold and cutting.

"So nice of you to join us, Stringfellow Hawke," she sneered. "I've been waiting on you a while now."

Hawke made some comment, his voice so low that Caitlin couldn't make out what he said.

Whatever it was didn't sit well with Freyja, because her tone sharpened. Even here Caitlin could hear the shot she fired off, and Hawke's involuntary yelp.

Saint John yelled something angrily.

"Enough!" Freyja yelled back. "I have the three of you. I only need one, don't push your luck."

Slipping closer, Cait tightened her grip on the gun.

Shoving to his feet, Saint John lunged for Freyja, even as Hawke drew his gun. Freyja slammed a kick into Hawke's ribs sending him to the ground. She spun, slamming a palm strike into Saint John's jaw.

Roper grabbed for Hawke's gun on the ground by his feet. Freyja fired a round in his direction. Caitlin ran into the room, only to find String doubled up on the ground in pain.

Spinning, Freyja turned the gun on Cait. Tightening her finger on the trigger Caitlin fired unthinkingly, sending the woman down. Kicking the double agent's gun aside, Caitlin flung herself down beside her husband. "String!" she cried.

Sucking in a heaving breath, he struggled to make it to his knees. Saint John was on the floor beside them now. "String?" he asked, a large hand clasping his brother's shoulder.

Still, Hawke struggled to breathe. He was looking more than a little gray now. "Get him up!" Roper ordered.

Caitlin turned troubled eyes to Saint John. "Help me, Sinj" she pleaded. "We've got to get him back to Airwolf."

"No," Hawke wheezed. "Get…Freyja." His fingers closed over the dropped gun desperately.

Three heads turned towards the fallen woman…who was gone. "Crap!" Saint John muttered, rising to his feet.

"There's no time," Roper yelled, trying to get them back on task, fear for his father rushing through his veins. "Get String to Airwolf now." Reaching down, he drug Hawke to his feet, him on one side, Cait on the other. Saint John covered their path to the door.

Even as they crossed the threshold of the room, Freyja stepped from the shadows gun in hand. "Not so fast, Hawke," she snarled. "I owe you for last time, and I always pay my debts." Leveling the gun at his chest, she fired.

Staggering against Roper Hawke spun, raising his own gun simultaneously as she fired.

His finger tightened on the trigger, even as her bullet sliced across his ribs.

Caitlin raised her own gun, firing. Freyja fell almost instantly, her body hitting the ground with a sick thud.

"Come on," Roper urged, trying to drag Hawke forward, towards Airwolf.

"No," String rasped, slamming to a halt. "Check her…, make sure… she's dead." He gasped breathlessly.

Saint John abruptly realizing String's fear of the double agent again slipping through his fingers to threaten his family, lunged to do so. He placed two fingers against her throat checking for a pulse. After a moment, he answered Hawke's question. "She's dead."


	6. Chapter 6

"What's that noise?" Caitlin asked, pausing as she shoved her gun back in her belt.

Saint John raised his head listening. "Chopper. Sounds almost like a …"

"Huey," Hawke murmured, no longer gasping at least. "There was a Huey at the demo earlier. Belonged to some South American arms dealer."

"The buyer," Roper bit out. When the others just stared blankly at him, he snarled. "the winning bidder for Airwolf. Something's not right."

"He's here to pick up the Lady," Hawke rasped. "Come on."

Leaning his weight on Caitlin's shoulder, they staggered for Airwolf even as Saint John provided ground cover against Freyja's remaining men. Roper kept pace beside them across the uneven ground, switching out with a flagging Cait, as she stumbled with exhaustion and Hawke's additional weight on her shoulders.

Panting they made the helicopter, Roper taking engineering as Cait helped String the final feet to Airwolf's cockpit. Saint John loped up behind them, his gun in hand. Reaching to drag himself up, Hawke started to climb into the pilot's chair.

"You sure String?" his brother asked, worry in his hazel eyes as he watched him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," String said, his breathing raspy.

Climbing into the co-pilot's seat, Saint John nodded, watching his brother pull back on the collective as he flung Airwolf into the sky, even as the rat-a tat-tat of machine gun fire echoed in the cabin as it tore across Airwolf's armored ebony hide.

The Huey swung into view, gun mounts immediately evident as it did so. "Land that thing now, Mr. Hawke," a voice came across the radio. "While I'm still in the mood."

Snatching back on the cyclic, Hawke forced the helicopter into a power climb. The Huey followed.

"She's on our six," Caitlin warned.

"Not for long," Saint John retorted.

Another round of weapons fire tore across the Lady's tail. Hawke swung her up and over in an Aileron roll, coming down behind the other helicopter.

Kicking on the communications console, String responded to the other pilot. "Play time is over. It's proof time," Hawke grated harshly. "Put up or shut up."

The Huey swung around, firing as it did so, falling in line behind Airwolf.

"Missile away," Caitlin warned breathlessly.

"Got it," String replied, slinging Airwolf hard right.

"Still tracking," she stated tersely.

"Sunburst," Hawke ordered.

Caitlin fired the decoy magnesium flare distracting the missile away from Airwolf. Thankfully, this time it took.

"Firing again," Roper warned Hawke from beside Caitlin. Hawke looped up and over, sliding in behind the Huey now as he did so. His thumb hovered over the trigger. The other helicopter rolled hard left coming up behind them.

"Missile, Hawke! Missile!" Cait's voice yelled in his ear.

His thumb hitting the trigger, Hawke leveled a maverick at the missile. Exploding on contact, the impact shook the cockpit, flames licking at the windscreen.

Pulling back on the stick, String slid Airwolf into a sweeping Aileron loop, the dark, shark like helicopter swooping up behind the Huey. He let loose a sidewinder missile, pulling hard right as he did so.

The missile impacting almost instantly, the Huey exploded flinging shrapnel as it fell, a fireball from the sky. Howling out her challenge, Airwolf turned towards home and the Valley of the gods.


	7. Chapter 7

Winging her way over the desolate landscape Airwolf headed for Van Nuys Airport. Reading her simply as a Bell 222 the control tower gave her clearance, and String dropped Saint John and Roper off at Santini Air with the promise to pick him up at the lair in a couple hours. Wearily, he turned her away from the airfield towards Red Star, before backtracking towards the lair.

Working engineering, Caitlin cast a worried glance at her husband. The events of the last few weeks were definitely showing on him, she thought, her forehead creasing with concern. The accident had definitely been a close call, and he'd pushed pretty hard the last couple of days in trying to get Airwolf and Saint John back.

"String?" she asked.

"Yeah?" he muttered barely throwing her a glance.

"What'd the doctor say about you flying?"

Hawke raised an astonished eyebrow. "You're asking me that now, Cait?" he said wonderingly.

"Just answer me."

"Another couple weeks so far as anything pressurized above 10,000 feet."

"And combat flying?"

"Hey," Hawke flared. "I got us out of there, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did," Cait conceded, with an admiring look as a thought crossed her mind. "And all without a single instance of going over 300 knots."

"Yeah."

"Still not supposed to be flying combat, huh?" she remarked sagely.

Hawke sighed, knowing he was snagged. "No."

"Pulling the g's?" Cait asked, the reason suddenly clicking into mind. Now that aerial dogfight made perfect sense.

"Something like that," he sighed. "I can manage her without turbos, but it makes her a lot more vulnerable. I can't do the g-forces though."

She rolled her eyes. "That was a huge risk you took Hawke."

He was silent a long time, and she'd about decided he wasn't going to answer when he finally spoke, the words low. "I know, Cait, and I'm sorry. I just didn't know much else I could do. Somebody had to save Saint John and Airwolf, and I sure couldn't let you and Roper do it alone. It wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't come back."

The anger and tension in her shoulders eased, replaced by a bone numbing weariness. "Yeah, I know what you mean," she whispered, her mind replaying the moment when he'd gone down in excruciating detail. "Just realize I have no intention of leaving you either. So, don't make me promise something like that again, okay?"

Hawke turned, his eyes meeting hers beneath the heavy helmet before he spoke. "Deal," he promised quietly, before turning back to the instruments in front of him.

* * *

Silence descended on the cockpit as Hawke lowered the Lady back into the lair. Gracefully, she settled to the dark cavern floor, the afternoon sun bathing her softly in faint light. Climbing out, Hawke reached for the change of clothes he kept in the storage bin onboard. Caitlin did the same.

Sliding out of the cockpit, Hawke's boots hit the ground with a thud. Catching hold of the door, he caught himself before he fell - just barely. Sighing, he lowered himself to a nearby boulder painfully as he unzipped the gray flight suit.

Climbing out of the helicopter, Caitlin reached for her clothes dragging them out of the storage bin behind her. As she turned, she happened to glance over at the boulder where String sat. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his flight suit.

Unaware of her silent perusal, Hawke shoved the flight suit to his waist.

Biting back a gasp, Caitlin made her way across the dirt floor of the hollowed-out mesa. Despite the long trip back, blood still dripped from Hawke's side where Freyja's last bullet had grazed him. The exertion of running for the helicopter over the uneven terrain and through the underbrush had caused it to bleed freely, making it look far worse than it actually was.

"String?" Cait asked worriedly, gesturing to his side.

He shrugged stiffly. "It's nothing, Cait. Just a graze."

"It sure doesn't look like nothing." Tenatively she stretched out a hand towards him.

Reaching for the first aid kit, Hawke snagged a roll of gauze. He'd had many such wounds in his life, and he was inclined to slap a bandage over it, and go on.

Unfortunately, Caitlin didn't see it that way, he thought.

Kneeling beside him she fussed, probing the bullet wound. "Do you have any idea how close you came to doing some serious damage, String?"

"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me," he said his blue eyes crinkling. Patiently, he leaned back watching her.

"Honestly," she fumed, rolling her eyes at him. "You'll be the death of me, Hawke."

"There are worse ways to go," he teased with a half-grin.

Tearing open the alcohol swab packet with her teeth, the fiery red-head shook her head. "You're something else, you know," she muttered, shaking out the alcohol wipe.

"Ow!" he yelped as she swiped the raw-looking wound with antiseptic. "Cait, stop already," he said squirming. "That hurts worse than the getting shot!"

"Oh, stop being such a baby," she fussed. Nonetheless, she blew on the raw-looking gash.

Feeling her breath on his skin sent shivers of awareness seeping through his body, to places not even remotely injured. Though he'd never say it out loud, he kinda had to admit he enjoyed her fussing over him. It'd been too long before Cait since he'd had a beautiful woman to tend his wounds or care enough to make over him. Even after all these years, he wasn't quick to forget that.

As her slender fingers smoothed the edges of the bandage down, his breathing became uneven and his head light. Maybe it was from the loss of blood earlier, he thought, but somehow he didn't think he'd lost enough for that. "Hey Cait," he murmured huskily, the dark blue eyes meeting hers.

"Yeah, String?" she asked, her eyes catching his and holding.

"You know we've got a while before Saint John and Roper make it out here." The gaze was frank, searching.

"Yeah," she agreed, a grin tugging at her lips, blue-green eyes sparkling and not giving him an inch.

"We could put it to good use," he murmured, calloused fingers caressing her cheek. "What do you think?"

"Might be just what the doctor ordered," she whispered with a smile as she placed her lips on his.


	8. Chapter 8

"I don't care what you think, Michael!" Stringfellow Hawke said defiantly. "All you've had here the last couple months is break-ins and security breaches. You've about gotten every one of us killed," he gestured wildly around the room. "Including yourself and Marella!"

"Hawke, you know the committee will have a cow, if they find you've taken Airwolf without their approval," the spy reminded placatingly.

"So let them!" Hawke fired back. "You don't honestly think I care what the committee thinks, do you?"

"No, I don't," Archangel remarked ruefully. "But what about flying missions and testing?"

Hawke sighed, rubbing his chin. "Look Michael, I know this isn't a permanent solution. We'll still fly the necessary missions for you, but I'm tired of being shot up every time you turn around, and I'm tired of having to figure out which Firm agent has gone rogue this week. I do know I can trust everyone in this room," here he gestured to the others standing behind him, "at least to a point" - this was said with a sharp glance at Michael and Marella.

Frowning Marella plunked her coffee cup down on the desk. "I resent that, Hawke," she stated angrily.

"Then I'm sorry, you feel that way," he said, blue eyes earnestly meeting hers. "The fact remains though, Red Star has a security breach and I'll be keeping an eye on the Lady until that's resolved.

"This'll bring the committee down on your head, Hawke," Archangel warned.

"So be it," Hawke retorted. "When haven't they been lately?"

Thoughtfully, the spy stroked his mustache. "So the terms revert to the previous agreement?" he asked.

"The terms have always been the previous agreement, Michael," String said in exasperation. "The only thing that has changed is Saint John is back. I still take the missions on my terms, the others can do what they want. If they want to fly for you, I certainly won't stop them. I just don't want to have to go find Airwolf on a regular basis."

Templing his fingers, Archangel frowned. "Alright, Hawke you win. At least for now. I'll run interference for you with the committee while we clean house. Just realize at some point Airwolf will have to come home to Red Star."

"She is home, Michael," Hawke retorted. "But I'll keep it in mind." With that he strode out of Archangel's office, the others behind him. The door slammed shut.

Picking up the cup of coffee, chocolate brown eyes met Michael's. "You think he bought it?" Marella asked.

Michael's single blue eye met hers. "Only as much as he wanted to."

* * *

"You're really going to keep her?" Saint John asked, his long stride easily keeping step with his brother's shorter one.

"Yep."

"The lair?"

"Yeah."

"How long you think 'til Michael figures it out?" Saint John asked. "You've got to know he will find out."

Shrugging, Hawke took his sunglasses off as he ground to a halt in the middle of the parking lot. "He already knows," he said matter-of-factly the dark blue eyes piercing.

"He knows?" the older blonde pilot questioned in confusion.

"Sure," Hawke respond with a shrug, his eyebrows quirking. "It's just the committee that doesn't. That and hopefully the bad guys."

Saint John shook his head. "Dangerous game you're playing String."

"So what's new?" Hawke asked with a brief half-grin." The only difference is now, I'm playing it on my terms.

Shaking his head wonderingly, Saint John climbed into the jeep. "You know you're crazy don't 'cha String?"

"Certifiable," Hawke responded.


End file.
